November 12, 2009

Oh hi! Hello there. I am not dead, as it turns out! I couldn't wait any longer to extend a big welcome to anyone who made there way over here from the lastest issue of Artful Blogging (which hit the stands a week or so ago), to let any regular readers know that, hey! I'm in the current Winter issue of Artful Blogging! See? Two birds with one stone. And since that metaphor sucks, we'll pretend I didn't use it. Moving on! I hope this doesn't completely screw up your bloglines or make everyone stabby, but I'm going to be hitting you with a barrage of backlogged posts in the next few days. I've been really struggling to figure out a way to fit my blog back into a new, beyond chaotic schedule, that leaves exactly, oh, I don't know, NONE minutes at the end of the day for writing and general computer time, but I think I may have found a solution. It might take a little while to work out the kinks, but I am hoping that the new format will make it much easier for me to keep up with life's current pace. So without further ado, it's time to play catch-up.All love,*Andrea

September 13, 2009

I don't own any black clothes. No really. I don't. Yes, that is actually possible. Let me tell you about this little color called gray. It is almost black, but, goes with brown and navy and all kinds of other fun-tastic hues. Why? Because getting dressed every day is hard work. I am lazy. So lazy that part of me wishes it were still as simple as putting on my old school uniform again and heading out the door. So I decided to stop buying black, and then discovered I no longer had to coordinate every damn thing I wore. Everything in my closet matched! Packing was suddenly easy! There was no need to bring both the black shoes and the brown shoes, WHEN YOU DON'T OWN BLACK SHOES. Incredible.

My dog's name. No really. His name is Bradley. I'm not joking. Why are you laughing? Okay, you're right. It's kind of funny. But if there was ever a dog destined to be a Bradley, it would be this one. Now somebody go fetch him a sweater and a pipe; it's time for his evening scotch.

Why adults should read children's books.Especially adults without children. Serious, bill-paying, job-holding, vegetable-eating adults. You have probably heard all the usual arguments, which is fine, because I'm not really interested in them. My favorite quote from Madeleine L'Engle goes something like, "You have to write whichever book it is that wants to be written. And then, if it's going to be too difficult for grownups, you write it for children." The greatest misconception of children's literature is that it is easier to write and read and understand than that which is written for adults. The truth is exactly the opposite. There are only two genres that I know of that strive to communicate the largest of themes using the fewest possible words with a limited vocabulary: children's books, and poetry. Every time I see the smug, Kerouac-toting, hipster barista who's taken a shine to arguing the validity of my chosen profession and the genre as a whole with me, all BEFORE I've had my morning coffee, I want to a.) throw him against the wall, and b.) make him read everything Kate DiCamillo has ever written. Particularly her newest: The Magician's Elephant. And then this post, which really says it best. And then I will request that he and his beloved, eccentric, clove-smoking authors make the ideas of why we are here and what we owe each other accessible to, say, a six or seven year old. I will wish them luck, of course. And only then will I be able to enjoy my morning coffee in peace.

I feel safer in a car than a plane. I know it's completely irrational, but there you have it. My parent's let me watch Miracle Landing with them when I was nine, which was simultaneously riveting and terrifying. Now that I think about it, it may have been my first experience with television shock-drama. Since then, I have fought the urge to bawl uncontrollably during air-travel. Thank you, made-for-television movies!

Blush. Let me guess. You have melanin. How nice that must be for you. I hear it's very convenient to have naturally rosy cheeks, but unfortunately, there are some of us who were not blessed with the gift of pigment. I know the vampire look is very popular right now and all, but let me tell you, some people would rather not walk around looking sallow. Of course, I am not advocating cheek-bones a la Joan Collins. But if I were forced to choose only two items from my medicine cabinet with which to live for the rest of my life, one would be a brush (seriously, have you seen my hair?), and the second would be rouge. Honestly. I might be porcelain, but I am not dead, thank-you-very-much.

We do not have cable. Stop looking at me like that. I am perfectly sane. In fact, I would venture to guess that am a happier person now because I do not have cable television. And thanks to Hulu, I can still watch whatever shows happen to be awesome, FOR FREE. And what does our household do instead of watching television, you ask? Are you serious? Lordalmighty.

So what about you? What have you given up trying to explain? Graphic novels? Chai? Gladiator sandals? No topic is too small to defend.

August 29, 2009

If you were to measure summer in number of excursions great and small, then we would be the champions of summer. We would win gold medals. We would receive lucrative contracts from cereal companies. I know that was the plan and all, but I forgot about all the gearing-up time it takes, and then the gearing-down, and how the washing-machine goes non-stop in between, and that dogs often get carsick, and smell particularly dog-like when lodged in a small vehicle. The next thing you know it's the end of August and you're finding shoes in your trunk. We have traveled from here to Canada to the coast and the river and back again in the last month alone, much of it spontaneous. The lazy days of summer are not particularly lazy. I say this every year. But that doesn't mean they are any less spectacular. Being able to travel with my husband in this way, to visit friends and family after a few years absence is a miracle.

But as it turns out, I am no longer a road warrior. The morning of my birthday I woke up sick. Really sick. I did not pack appropriately. It was (and is commonly) 30 degrees cooler in Newport than any other place along the Oregon Coast. I would have known this if I had bothered to GOOGLE ANYTHING, but, you know. the flu does things to the brain. I tried not to shake my fists at the universe and enjoy what little time we had. Aaron knew this somehow, and oysters and champagne on the beach turned into oysters and champagne in bed. Walks on the beach in the whipping wind were followed by hot baths. He let me wear his hoodie. And borrow his socks. The place was pure magic, but I was a mess.

It was still dark when I sat staring at the digital clock on the motel nightstand that final morning. 4:30 am. Even the canine crew showed no signs of stirring. I could either toss and turn and wake the whole room up, or take my hacking elsewhere. So I layered up and grabbed the camera on the way out the door. I know at some point the sun rose. And I know the tide came back in. Clam hunters in muddy waders made their way up twisting pathways to their trucks. I may have been the only non-fisher person, not to mention woman, up at that hour, wandering around the docks, inspecting crab-pots. I sat by the ocean for who knows how long. And I don't remember feeling sick, not even for one second. I took a hundred photos. You can find a few of them here.

This story has no moral really, except to say that things don't always go as planned. I could rename my whole blog just that. Entire trajectories can be thrown off by something as big as a job loss or something as simple as the flu. And I'm okay with that. Because as it turns out, things can be better.

July 17, 2009

Wow. You all really know how to welcome a girl back. I'm sort of awestruck. Your support and encouragement... I hope you know how much it means to me. To us. But before I get a all choked up, I should press on because I seem to have run out of time today, and nothing short of a bullet style entry will be sufficient to recap the current craziness.

Things I Have Done In This Blur of Months, Henceforth To Be Known as June-ly:

- Worked. Double time. With a manager who goes on extended vacation this time of year-- which also happens to be the time of year most feared by persons in my profession, all I can say is, Holy Crap, you guys. When does school start again?

- Ate my body weight in popsicles.

- Drafted a new pattern based on a shirt I already own, cut out the pieces, proceeded to freak out about it, and abandoned it on the dining room table. Which is not uncommon for me. If I had a nickel for every project I started, but lost faith in because of my sewing abilities, I would be a freaking bajillionaire.

- Did a little victory dance in the aisles of Goodwill, when a never-used Polaroid SX-70 shone like a beacon out from under a dark bottom shelf.

- Went on a mad-hunt to procure film for said camera.

- Spent an overwhelming amount of time buried in construction paper. Why I feel the need to out-do myself for each and every story-time craft is beyond me. Do I believe that preschoolers can gauge how much effort you put into these things? Probably.

- Read, maybe, 400 YA books. Okay, more like 30. But that's a lot of angst in under three weeks and, let me tell you. I am this close to losing my grip on reality. I've already plowed through every Sarah Dessen, Jenny Han, re-read the Twilight series, Libba Bray, a few other obscure and marvelous authors (good lord E. Lockhart is AMAZING), read all the Newberrycontenders (and the winner), and threw in a couple of Harry Potter's (not YA) for good measure. Now I need to go and get really really drunk and talk about mortgages with a bunch of grown-ups, just to celebrate the fact that I AM NOT A TEENAGER ANYMORE.

- Geeked out over the upcoming kid'sbooks turned films slated for release the following year. I may, or may not, have started bawling at the 30 second preview for "Where the Wild Things Are,' and may, or may not, have embarrassed the grown man sitting next to me in the theater, who knows me well enough to understand that I LOSE MY SHIT at anything that involves kind, vulnerable, and/or maligned non-human creatures.

- Worked on the final draft for a writing project due next week. (And I will share a bit more about this, that is, as soon as I stop worrying about it.)

- Took a walk every evening after dinner with the most amazing husband in the universe. It's my new favorite time of day.

Things I Did Not Do in June-ly:

- Clean my house.

- Do any laundry. I have no socks. Really. Not even one.

- Pick up my camera much. (I am still woefully behind on 52 Weeks.) I plan to make up for that this weekend.

- Spend much time on the internet.

- Think about my upcoming birthday. Which is, as it turns out, tomorrow.

- Pack for a short trip to the coast, even though we leave in under 24 hours. (Did I mention that I haven't done any laundry? Maybe we can just wear clean sheets. Or newspaper. Or something.)

- Sleep

* * *

And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go dunk my head in some cold water before it explodes, and then try to make it to work on time. Oh, Summer. Your ability to slow things down and speed things up simultaneously is nothing short of miraculous. Happy Friday, friends.

June 28, 2009

I have decided that this will be the summer of teen romance novels. This summer, my house will be a wreck, and I will choose whisky and lemonade over mopping and clean feet. I will keep a bag packed of beach-related things at all times, and suggest trips to the coast at random. And by suggest, I mean demand. This summer I have decided to enjoy the sweat that beads on my upper lip and the underwire of my bra. To embrace it as part of the heat and humidity that I have decided not to complain about. That will be the hardest part. As a pale person, I am hardwired to complain about the heat. This will be the summer I sit on the back stoop in my nightgown to enjoy a midnight popsicle. And I will enjoy it. Every second. This will be the first summer that I will do it right. I will channel my eight year old self, the last self who actually enjoyed months June through August, who lived for green chlorinated hair, morning swims, watermelon and root beer floats for dinner, impervious to the 120 degree heat of her childhood landscape.

And this will be the summer of love. I will tell you why. This will be the first summer in eight years for spending every day, arm in arm with my husband, sharing meals, walking the dogs, talking. Because this will always be remembered as the summer my husband lost his job. And while this will also be the summer of great stress, putting in longer hours, flailing in the sudden role of bread-winner, I know that in the end, I am only the winner of tiny loaves. Muffins really. Mini-muffins. There is no point in worrying about being the muffin-winner, when time stretches on ahead of you, full of the one person you have always missed the most, despite sleeping in the same bed. I cannot help but smile, in the face of everything, when I see it for the gift it really is. This will be the summer of endless possibilities. And manifest destiny. This will be the summer where the big 3-0 looms ever closer, and I give up caring about what happened to my butt, or what it looks like in a bikini. This summer, there will always be fresh flowers on the nightstand, no matter how tight it gets. Because the hydrangea, who had a hunch, are kindly working on a few hundred blooms for us. This summer, I will wear gingham. I will whistle, despite poor whistling skills. I will daydream about avocado. I will give my dogs bellyrubs.

May 07, 2009

Hi, all. It's me. You know. The girl who's supposed to be writing things in this space, but isn't. Yeah that one. So...things have gotten a little difficult as of late. No reason to worry, but I couldn't let the days and weeks continue to roll on without mentioning that. I don't have much mental energy left, and the logon screen often leaves me wordless and witless. I don't have plans to close this blog, but I do know that if I don't let myself off the hook about a few things and soon, you may find me running down the street with underwear strapped to my head, raving about 'the pressure!' It's all self-inflicted of course, but it's high time I sorted some things out. I'm not sure how long that will take, but I hope to be back to something close to normal soon, writing about dog poo and the pursuit of happiness.

I will still be around, plugging away at 52 weeks and visiting your lovely corners of the internet. And if a jar of wilty lilacs isn't enough of a peace-offering, how about a little dog smile? I hope that will do. Until then...

April 17, 2009

There have been days, many days, in the last few weeks where I have nearly walked out, or at least walked away from my job with no intention of returning. Days when I thought I would collapse from either heartbreak or exhaustion. Or both. Adding injury to insult, today I hobbled to and fro, after gruesomely catching my foot under an industrial sized door while cleaning the bathrooms. It was not pretty. Not any of it.

And then, wouldn't you know, came these.

. . . .

Mother: (utterly genuine) Thank you so much for helping us. We appreciate it so much. Have a wonderful night!

Me: You too! You're very welcome.

Daughter, 3 (whom I have never met): Thank you very much for helping us! Ap-pre-shate it! Thank you I love you See you in the morning!

. . . .

Boy, 8: Excuse me, Miss, would you be able to help me find something? I can't find a book and I really need your help. (with growing distress) It's the first book in the Guardians of Gahoole series, and it's so important, and I looked where it's supposed to be and I just can't find it...

Me: Well you are in luck, bud, because I got a copy in this morning that's still in the back. I'll go grab it for you.

Boy: Really?! Really?! Oh I would be SO VERY GRATEFUL!!!

Me: (returning with the book)

Boy: (jumping up and down) Wow, Miss, you are really very good at your job! Isn't she very good at her job, Mom?! Isn't she the best book person!

April 10, 2009

Honestly. You all are amazing. All I can say is thank you. Thank you for the overwhelming response to my last post. These two are so lucky to have so many supporters. And because those words hardly seem to cut it, I offer you instead an Easter/Passover greeting in the form of two very cooperative, although annoyed, small dogs. I promise, it rained chicken from the sky immediately following. And then, of course, Bradley ate the ears.

May your holiday weekend be full of family and loved ones, both furry and otherwise. Happy Friday, friends.

April 03, 2009

I was going to wait until I got a decent photo of the two of them before making an announcement, but it has proved impossible. This, apparently, is as good as it gets. I forge ahead, covered in mud and dog fur.

. . . .

Bradley, as he is now known by those who love him, was found wandering the streets in an area of rural Washington in October of last year. He was ill, emaciated, and afraid of humans. Of touch, in particular. A quick read through of the Animal Control report doesn't offer much hope. He was lucky; sent to recover at a no-kill shelter instead of the Humane Society where the euthanasia rate for small dogs in that area is incredibly high. After neutering, they knew his chances of adoption were slim without a transfer, and so he was sent to Portland, Oregon. We brought him home just a few days later. And then it all began.

The attempt to undo years of neglect in a matter of months is not an easy thing. I would try to describe it, but I couldn't do it justice. The only people who have any idea what I'm actually talking about are people who've been through it themselves. I have heard stories of dogs who jumped through second story windows as a result of separation anxiety. Holes chewed through doors. Entire living rooms attacked as if by machetes. The unlatching of locks, the bending of steel, the jumping of impossible barriers, injuries, death, you name it.

You should know, however, that these stories are from the same people who cared enough to keep trying. The benevolent leaders who knew that it takes more than exercise and dominance assertion to rehabilitate a wounded animal.*** One who cannot even speak your language. Who will never understand you, what you are saying, or why you do what you do. Who will never sit in a psychiatrist's chair. Who will never have the benefit of an explanation. Who is not even of your own species. Through it all, there was never any doubt. Ours was the most docile, gentle, well-mannered dog we could ever have hoped for. An angel with children. Friendly to other dogs. He would have done anything for you, if only it meant you wouldn't leave.

Fast forward five months. He is still all of those things, of course, but completely transformed. Confident, happy, joyous, with an arsenal of self-soothing techniques. He got a second chance, and he knows it, takes in every day as if it were a gift, a thing of beauty. It does a person good to live with that kind of exuberance. It changes people. The dogs, well, they are just busy doing what they do, and you are in tears, wondering why you never saw it before--the way this day is the greatest thing that ever happened to you, that you are ALIVE, and get to live it. The lightness of being.

We never expected to receive a call from the shelter up in Washington. We never expected to be told that there was a chance they knew where he had escaped from. That a home in the area was seized by Animal Control, where dogs of Bradley's particular breed combination, with a few variations, were neglected and in abundance. That they had taken in one of the females, that she was pregnant, but after she gave birth, would be up for adoption. We never expected to be making an 8 hour trip to pick up another dog on a random Sunday in March. It felt like the most insane thing we had ever done.

More than anything, we never expected what we found when we got there. An impossible landscape. A listless, fractured place. Big dogs chained in front of every dwelling, and quite a few dead in the middle of the road. (Wish I was kidding about that.) The human situation was equally hopeless. And then one crazy old wild-haired woman, wearing socks and sandals and bright plaid pants, covered in dog fur, smiling with her whole mouth, as we pulled up to the shelter at the end of a desert road. We realized right away that it was her home. That she was, quite possibly, a saint. And that is how we came to adopt June.

We drove home that night while the dogs slept together in the backseat, their heads resting on each others shoulders. It has been five days and the June-bug has already brought out aspects of Bradley's personality that we could never touch. She taught him how to wrestle, how to chase squirrels, how to dig, how to play 'steal the bone' for HOURS at a time as if he had never forgotten any of these things. They both got a second chance. They know it. Sense in the nonsensical human world. A tie to their previous lives. Proof of continuity, instead of an explanation. And let me tell you. It is enough.

They are eerily similar (not surprising). The gentlest creatures you will ever meet, their every move deliberate and soft. June shows no propensity for separation anxiety so far, but lives up to her name as a mischievous bug. Are we crazy for wanting to do this again? Probably. But I will tell you this: I have never been happier than I have been these past few months, running around like a fool at the park, drenched from the rain, covered in mud, away from the computer, phone, and big comfy couch, every day, rejoicing in each tiny success, and paying no attention to the failures. Even my own.

My house is a disaster zone, the camera is covered with slobber, and I have swept up enough fur to clothe a herd of elephants, but it really doesn't matter. This is a happy home. We live here. All of us. No matter how our family may change in the years to come, no matter where we go, these two will always have a place here. We did what we could. And let me tell you. It was enough.

All love,

*Andrea

***As you have probably noticed, we do not ascribe to the increasingly popular (not to mention televised), 'intimidation approach' to dog training, and are firm believers in Operant Conditioning, or positive reinforcement. If you are interested in finding out more about how we went about rehabilitating Bradley, including clicker training (our approach was multifaceted), feel free to email me with any questions, or check out the following books. You won't regret it. Promise.

March 26, 2009

All I can really think of to say at the moment is, YES. Because the best kind of news is the kind of news you receive during the terror of spring break. Where it is mayhem. Perhaps the most dreaded week of the work-year. And parents, I feel you. Really I do. You don't have to tell me because it's written all over your face, if this madness does not stop you are GOING TO GO INSANE, and I will be right there with you. We'll hold hands even.

So Maira has returned to the NY Times. This is getting me through the week. There are very few people on earth who I admire more, who's books I turn to as often (for both grown-ups and smalls), who's entire approach makes me want to get up and dance and run around in the streets, and tell people, I happen to be alive. End of discussion. Let's go tell the others.

Wishing you a remarkable Friday, a little bit of calm in a busy week, and if all else fails, we have Maira. And wine. We have that too.

Scout.

I'm Andrea. I like to make things. I like plaid and collecting curiosities to put under bell jars. I love books. Also, mockingbirds, bikes with baskets, textiles, cupcakes, and whiskey. Mostly, I run around making no sense.